


Eye of the Storm

by Lightpoint



Series: Keeping Up Appearences [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: A Frustrated Padme is a Kinky Padme, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin Has No Brain Filter, Anakin Has No Chill, Anakin wants to have his cake and eat it too, Anakin wants to watch his two favorite non-Jedi people get it on, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Emotionally Needy Anakin, F/M, Frustrated Padme, Greedy Anakin, Het and Slash, I REGRET NOTHING, Into the Garbage Chute I Go, Lust Triangle, M/M, Multi, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Padme is the winner of this fic, Palpatine is the Emperor of Trolling, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Sorry Not Sorry, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Wet Dream, does this count as netorare, kind of messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8017351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightpoint/pseuds/Lightpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anakin, on a brief shore leave, attempts to catch up with his two favorite non-Jedi people: Padme Amidala and Chancellor Palpatine. Anakin is bad at multi-tasking. And when it comes to affection, he is downright <i>greedy. </i> After an indiscretion (or two) in the Senate building, and a late-night 'Welcome Home' party, Anakin finds himself facing the consequences of his actions. They are <i>not </i> was he was expecting.</p><p>Anakin/Padme, Padme/Palpatine, Anakin/Palpatine…and Anakin/Padme/Palpatine because I haven’t found any (yet), and it needs to exist because <i>reasons. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darth_Videtur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Videtur/gifts).



> For Darth Videtur, because my headcanon about the Naboo language is _entirely_ your fault. And let's face it, if this actually happened, the galaxy would never be the same again. It is known.

Anakin paced the cramped common area of his rooms in the Jedi Temple, looking everywhere but the comm display. He’d lied to his wife for the first time not thirty minutes ago. There was no meeting with the Council, no strategy roundtable with the 501st, and Ashoka was out on the town, doing who-knew-what with her age-mates. He should be curled up on Padme’s couch, waiting impatiently for her to finish up her work, pretending to fill out post-battle reports, drinking in the candlelight wreathing her slender form, as lovely in an old bathrobe as in the finest of her Senate gowns. He should be stretched out on her bed, his fingers twisting in the sheets as her nightgown fluttered to the floor, and then nothing between them, nothing at all…

He flopped down onto the couch with a despairing groan. 

_Why did I kiss him?_

There were days that he swore the universe hated him. The call had come (of course) seconds after Padme had found her release. Anakin’s cock twitched at the memory of her muffled cries as she ground desperately against him, slick and hot on his tongue, fluttering around the slow press of his fingers. She’d flushed prettily and handed him a handkerchief, her eyes locked on his glistening mouth and chin.

_I missed you._

Anakin’s stomach twisted guiltily. He should have stayed, or convinced her to take a sick day. They’d done that once, back when the war (and their marriage) was new. He’d pressed her giggling to the bed, teasing her about ‘playing hooky’, those small hands twisting in his hair, raking fiery lines down his back. He’d nearly come undone when she pressed her lips to his throat and the strange syllables of her native language poured like water from her tongue, filling his veins with fire as she guided him inside her…

But he hadn’t seen the Chancellor in person for months. Yes, Palpatine was a regular attendee at high-level strategy meetings, but Anakin simply didn’t consider the cold, wavering hologram as _him._ He always wore the same face, his politician’s face, austere and poised, a far cry from the way he looked and spoke when seated across from Anakin in his office, or walking leisurely down the Senate corridors, masked guards three paces behind. You couldn’t _talk_ with a picture, not really. Who knew when (or if) he’d be able to meet with him while he was on Coruscant?

So he’d crawled out from under Padme’s desk, and promised to come by soon. He’d taken his time walking the Senate corridors, willing his arousal to subside. 

Palpatine had greeted him with a tired smile. His desk was stacked with datapads (almost exactly like Padme’s, right down to the half-eaten lunch, Anakin was amused to note), and a scrolling holo-display of his schedule for the day. 

“Anakin!” Palpatine stepped around his desk and clasped Anakin’s arm warmly. “I’m glad I caught you…How are things?”

“Fine, your Excellency,” Anakin said, his heart thudding. Warmth that he’d thought banished pooled low in his belly. He sucked in a breath and stood stock still, as close as he dared, letting the man’s _presence_ wash over him – so calm and approving, warm and supportive, his voice curling with genuine pleasure…

_…Damn it._ He thought he’d left his crush behind with his teenage years. _It’s just because I haven’t seen him for a while. I’m horny and I missed him and he’s warm and here and I need – I need ---_

Anakin swallowed. He hadn’t let go of Palpatine’s arm.

“Anakin?” The Chancellor frowned in confusion, his thin lips a breath away. 

Anakin leaned in and kissed him.

Palpatine stood stiffly for a moment, frozen in surprise. Anakin’s mind caught up with his body, and he froze too, his mouth open and panting against Palpatine’s throat, trembling, embarrassment welling up inside him, and braced himself for anger, rejection. Then he felt slender fingers press into his biceps and pull him closer.

Anakin’s fingers knotted in Palpatine’s robes, shuddering as he pressed his palms to a surprisingly firm back. The Chancellor hummed, his tongue teasing at Anakin’s lips, coaxing them open. Anakin groaned and hung on as Palpatine’s tongue swiped against the roof of his mouth, tasting him. Then the older man froze and drew back, frowning slightly. He ran his tongue along his thin lips, blinking with surprise. A sly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Interesting,” he’d purred. “Not your first visit, is it?” Anakin stumbled back, his ears burning as Palpatine deliberately licked his lips. “Anyone I know?”

“Ah –“ Anakin sputtered. Palpatine chuckled.

“Not to worry,” he said, waving Anakin towards the seat in front of his desk. “I was young once, too.”

“Don’t say that, sir,” Anakin blurted. _Damn it all to the seven Sith hells._ “I mean it doesn’t matter, sir. I wasn’t just -- ” Palpatine shook his head and settled back behind his desk.

“It’s quite all right, Anakin,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’m happy to see you, too.”

Their talk was quick. Anakin stuck to his impressions about the battlefront, and some vague references to what he was planning to do on his shore leave. Most of it involved Padme, so he wasn’t able to give much detail. It seemed, to his buzzing mind, that every second he would catch himself, almost letting a stray detail slip as his mind kept wandering back to Palpatine licking his wife’s slick off of his lips. 

Palpatine was escorting him to the door when Anakin’s mouth – yet again -- leaped ahead of his brain.

“How does she taste?”

Anakin cringed internally as soon as he heard himself speak. 

Palpatine’s eyes narrowed. Anakin swallowed dryly, knowing that he’d gone too far… And yet a small part of him really, _really_ wanted to know.

He opened his mouth to apologize.

“I will see you later, Anakin,” Palpatine said. He pitched his voice low. “And…Quite nice.”

Anakin had barely been able to look at Padme when they crossed paths in the Senate turbolift.

It hadn’t ended with the day, either. That night in the Jedi Temple he’d jerked awake in a tangle of drenched sheets, his thighs sticky with come, shadow figures and dark, sibilant voices writhing behind his eyes.

_…His wife parted the Chancellor’s robes, rich cloth rustling under her perfectly manicured nails, her eyes dark with lust. Palpatine hissed as she drew out his cock, one of the few Naboo words that Anakin could reliably discern falling from his lips. Padme said it all the time in bed, after all._

Fuck. 

_Padme caught his eye as she unfastened her high collar, baring a line of pale flesh from her collarbone to her navel, and moved one of Palpatine’s hands to her throat. She leaned, purring, into his curious touch, her hand working him until he tipped his head back with a startled gasp._

_“Anakin?” They spoke in unison, their voices tinged with their native tongue._

_He nodded._

_Palpatine slipped the cloak off of Padme’s shoulders, his fingers disappearing into the sleek coils of her hair as he lifted her onto his desk, pushing her elaborate skirts aside as he mouthed at the soft dip of her hip bone.…_

Anakin wasn’t sure how he managed to look Ashoka in the eye when she stumbled into the living room at seven in the morning. He just knew that he couldn’t face Padme. Not yet.

 

*

 

Padme sighed, the scrolling text on the datapad blurring before her eyes. She rested it across her knees, and reached across the gap between the sofa and the end table to grasp a mostly-empty mug of caf. Her third since lunch.

She hated bringing work home (though Anakin doubtlessly hated it more). But her husband wasn’t here, and she was, for once, distressingly behind. 

Not like her. At all.

Padme did not consider herself an especially distractible person, even when it came to Anakin, though lately he seemed to be on a mission to win her undivided attention. He’d shown up at her office during her lunch hour _twice_ in the past week. 

Padme gripped the datapad tightly, squirming slightly, a flush rising up within her as she remembered yesterday’s surprise. 

“Is Milady Senator busy?”

Anakin had been perched on the edge of her desk, eyes flicking from the pile of datapads balanced precariously at her elbow, to the half-eaten sandwich next to her notepad. 

“Yes,” she’d said, smiling regretfully. Gods, she’d missed him. Three months out with the Fleet, no word except for classified combat reports that somehow managed to find their way into her care, courtesy of the Chancellor’s secretary, each more terrifying than the last. And here he was in her office, warm light shining like a halo around his dear face, alive and whole, and _she couldn’t touch him._

She only had him to herself -- _hers, all hers_ \-- in the dark of night.

Anakin – of course – saw her distress. He caught her eye and grinned wickedly, glanced quickly at the open door, and leaned in close.

“No one saw me come in,” he’d whispered.

Padme had swallowed, whatever she’d been working on fading into the background of her mind. Her inbox pinged. And damn it all to _Hell_ she had a meeting. 

“Senator Umat will be here in two minutes,” she’d hissed. 

“No problem,” Anakin whispered, and slid sinuously under her desk. 

It couldn’t have been terribly comfortable down there. In bed Anakin covered her, _filled_ her, so completely that her senses spilled over with his skin and heat and sweat, his hands alone large enough to span her waist, to surround her even when she rode him. But somehow he’d folded that magnificent form into the dark space between her desk and chair and tugged her forward, gripping her thighs so that she was halfway off her seat. 

“With Milady’s permission?” he’d asked, long fingers toying with the edge of her undergarment. 

And gods help her she’d gasped out a _yes,_ had held him there, thighs clenching tight as she fought against the urge to grind against his face even as Senator Umat and his aide sat across from her, discussing something about an embargo on Ryloth…Or had it been Malastare? Possibly…His words had gone a little fuzzy when Anakin slipped his tongue inside her. 

It was the shortest meeting that Padme had held in _years._

She hadn’t been able to reciprocate, either. Padme gritted her teeth with frustration. He’d gotten an urgent comm from the Chancellor’s office almost immediately after she’d peaked, because apparently the universe hated her. And life did, indeed, go on.

“Just couldn’t wait to see you,” he’d whispered into her thigh as her fingers tangled shaking in his hair. “My angel.”

_My Knight,_ she thought. Slowly, Padme set the datapad down on the sofa. Not for the first time, old stories from her childhood danced through her head. Knights – not the Jedi, no – wearing their ladies’ favors on their arms, going on quests and running headlong into terrible danger to save their Kingdoms. Or for the heart of their love or the honor of their King…

Padme sighed and stood, stretching creaking limbs, and carried her mug into the kitchen. Anakin couldn’t get away to see her tonight. But he’d always come back to her.

Always.

Which was why the source of her distraction filled her with shame. 

The months that Anakin spent away had ground a hole in her heart that neither Dorme’s steady devotion nor her easy friendship with Mon Mothma could fill. Worse, it was far too dangerous to travel to Naboo to seek comfort from her family. Even a quick word from time to time was rare. Coruscant was plagued with frequent communications blackouts, thanks to the constant Seperatist attacks on Holonet encryption systems.

She’d turned to Chancellor Palpatine without thinking. The Naboo (completely understandably, in her opinion) did not leave their home world very often. Coruscant and its sterile steel monoliths, buzzing with frantic activity and harsh, artificial light, was about as far from her home world as it was possible to get. And while the Chancellor did, indeed, seem to be slowly following suit, slipping into the metal and transparisteel world of the center of the galaxy, Naboo was not easily washed away. 

Especially not the language. Padme gripped the counter, hard, as she placed her mug in the sink. Basic was second nature to her, but there was such joy in her native tongue...Just _hearing_ it unmarred by the crackle of a comlink, or warped on a holo was indescribable. 

And Palpatine was _very_ well-spoken. Padme bit her lip, stirring in her seat as the memory of that dark, soft baritone, tracing light paths through words as old as her world, rumbled through her. 

He’d speak, and she’d remember those days of fierce idealism, of bright hope for the future. Of the robes of state folding her in heavy silk, the elaborate headdress of the Queen making her neck ache. Of Senator Palpatine smiling gently, his pale eyes kind as her fourteen-year-old self climbed the steps to the throne. 

She’d remember the days before the Trade Federation blockade, and the Jedi Qui-Gon burning on his pyre, before Geonosis and the Clones, and this war that stretched on and on before her, dank and bloody, no end in sight. 

So Padme had sought out her former mentor, first for information regarding Naboo’s military status – the better to keep the Queen informed, of course – and then more frequently when she noticed that he hung on her every word when they discussed the latest news from Theed. 

“I have the report,” he’d said, when she’d asked about his interest. “Not the stories.”

He wasn’t her family, or her lover-husband, but his presence…soothed her in a way that throwing herself into her work never could. 

They began taking lunch together, on the rare occasion when they both had time, and would make an effort to talk about anything but the war. It usually didn’t work for long – Padme suspected that the fighting weighed even more heavily on Palpatine than it did on her – but somehow, with him, the inevitable segue into legislation or tactics rang with _possibility_ instead of despair. 

Padme supposed that they were friends. 

And then, yesterday…

She’d been called to Palpatine’s office shortly after Anakin had left her, shaking and barely sated. In fact, they’d run into each other on the Senate building turbolift, her going up, him going down, presumably on his way back to the Jedi Temple. He greeted her politely, but distantly, and avoided her eyes for the entire trip, gnawing on his lower lip. Padme had to stand next to him, so close, her body still flushed and sensitive from their previous activities, and keep her hands to herself. 

_Down, girl,_ she’d thought. _It’s time to work._

She’d felt the Chancellor’s eyes on her the second she stepped into his office. It was a light, fast, initially casual perusal that jerked to a halt at the high flush in her cheeks. Only an experienced politician – one who _knew_ him – could have caught the hitch in his breath as he greeted her. Or noticed his sharp, knowing look as their eyes met. It knocked her off guard, a jolt of visceral awareness that shook her to her core. He’d looked away quickly -- _too_ quickly -- and settled carefully behind his desk, his face blank. 

Padme still wasn’t sure how she’d regained (and held) her composure. Thanks to the crowd of senators in the room, she ended up standing between his desk and a Togruta, the wood pressing into her thigh, her nerves on edge as the sensation mixed in with the memory of Anakin’s hands and mouth on her less than an hour ago. 

Well, it _had_ been awhile.

And in the meantime, the Chancellor was seated less than a foot away, determinedly avoiding her gaze. 

_It’s the meeting. It has to be,_ she’d thought as she took in the stiff line of his back, the tension in his shoulders. Palpatine listened with care, certainly, properly engaged in the tense back-and-forth between Master Windu and Senator Organa, but every so often he would shift uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his sleek robes with quick, clever fingers.

To Padme’s knowing eye, he might as well have been climbing the walls.

_Does he know?_

He’d just spoken to Anakin. Anakin, who could withstand the worst torture the Seperatists could throw at him rather than betray his comrades, but was hands down one of the _worst_ liars she had ever met. Padme had long suspected that the only reason that they hadn’t been found out was because nobody had asked. 

Only years of practice had kept her outward expression smooth and coolly interested in the proceedings – the picture of her usual self. She’d moved quickly when the discussion drew to a close, the need to _leave immediately_ pressing in on her, and then --

“Senator Amidala? May I have a word?”

“Of course Chancellor,” she’d said, in Basic, her voice controlled and even. Their native language had too many delicate, chiming tells to be safe here, too many shades of meaning. 

It was difficult to lie in Nabooian. 

Palpatine had waited until the last politician filed out the door, and then stepped around his desk, pale blue eyes sharp with concern. Padme bit her lip, resisted the urge to take a step back. 

“Are you feeling all right, Senator?” he’d asked, frowning. Padme sucked in a breath, because _of course_ he’d used Nabooian. It would be rude to respond in Basic.

“I am, Chancellor,” she replied, straining to keep her words formal, as narrow in their meaning as possible. “I appreciate **Want** your concern **Interest.”** Padme had flushed then, as the second layer of meaning flowed underneath her words.

_Kriff._

Her native tongue was especially bad for small twists of truth.

“I am glad,” he’d said, after a moment, his syntax careful. “Then I won’t **Can’t** keep you…”

He’d walked her to the door, and extended his hand courteously in farewell. She’d taken it automatically, starting a little as soft, surprisingly strong fingers threaded with hers.

Had they held on for just a second too long?

_It’s my imagination,_ she thought.

Padme scowled, angry with herself as she turned on the sonic shower. Try as she might, the previous day just wouldn’t leave her.

If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn that he was _jealous._

Padme swallowed dryly, an odd little shiver fluttering in her chest. The thought was far more interesting than it should be.

 

*

 

It was easy to stay busy in the Jedi Temple. Anakin’s week of leave primarily consisted of training with Ashoka, fixing the broken mouse-droids in the residential wing, upgrading the cafeteria droids (even the ones that didn’t need it), cleaning his apartment, and meditation. 

The latter helped, to a certain point. But then he’d hit a wall, and end up pacing aimlessly, frustrated and ashamed. Normally, this was where he would ask Obi-Wan for advice, but his former Master always ended up figuring out far more than he should. It had made puberty extremely awkward. 

Anakin clenched his jaw. He could practically hear what Obi-Wan would say. 

_Well, after ripping me a new one, but that’s a given anyway._

But for everything else…

_Confusing friendship with physical need. Twisting the whole damn thing up in my emotions. Beware attachment…the shadow of Greed, it is…_

That was the polite version, anyway.

Anakin supposed that there weren’t a lot of things a Jedi Master could say if he realized that his former Padawan was fantasizing about the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic… _entwined_ with his wife.

And both of them focused on him. 

Anakin shuddered and dropped to the ground, his head in his hands. 

His love for Padme overwhelmed him, even more so when he touched her mind – _just a touch, and never for long_ – and saw that she returned it, a bright, guileless light that made the horror of the war seem a distant memory. When they were together, he felt alive. _Real._

The Chancellor was different. His friendship had none of the natural joining that he shared with Padme. Palpatine had stepped into his life, and stayed there. He’d offered a hand up, a different perspective on the galaxy. He _listened,_ in a way that Obi-Wan never could, because his old Master didn’t _understand…_

_He kissed me back._

Both of them would be too much. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

 

*

 

The door to Padme’s office hissed shut. She hit the locking mechanism with shaking hands, and typed in Dorme’s comm code. 

“Clear my schedule for this afternoon. I have something to take care of.”

“Certainly, milady.” There was a pause. “Milady, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Dorme, thank you.” Padme killed the connection before she lost all control. 

The holo file shimmered on the projector, the status button blinking green, practically asking to be played again. 

_Faked,_ she thought. It was the only rational explanation. 

The file had been attached to a message that had shown up on her personal holopad a few minutes after she’d begun her day. The Senate being what it was, she hadn’t been able to get to it until late in the afternoon, when the rush of beings heading in and out of her corner of the Senate building had slowed to a trickle. Padme was profoundly glad that she had waited. 

She checked the door lock again, and then hit play.

The Supreme Chancellor glided around his desk, smiling, and reached for Anakin, the picture of a friendly greeting. Padme reddened as Palpatine stiffened with confusion, and then shock as her husband froze mid-handshake, tightened his grip on the older man, and kissed him roughly. Anger hit her, hard, as she watched Palpatine’s hands freeze up, and then fall away to his sides, limp and lost, her husband completely oblivious. 

It got worse when Anakin recovered himself, and stared at his friend, wearing that wide, shocked look that appeared whenever she got annoyed, the edge of an apology on his lips. Padme watched the Chancellor’s hands clench into fists, his posture tense. But then he seemed to steel himself, planted his feet apart, and placed his hands on Anakin’s shoulders. And kissed him. 

…Only to pull away almost immediately, his tongue flicking along his lips, his eyes snapping with amusement. 

_Anyone I know?_

Padme almost shut it off, but she made herself sit through the rest of the awkward conversation. Thankfully, nothing classified was discussed, just odds and ends about Anakin’s life. 

_Such a bad liar,_ she thought, as her husband flinched every time Palpatine came close to something that would involve her. _At least in person…_ He reminded her of a little boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Though in Anakin’s case, he’d very likely just run off with the jar.

The ordeal wasn’t over, though. Her husband dragged her to new depths of embarrassment just when she thought he’d gotten his upstairs brain back in working order. Oh no, he decided that he was living in a bad porn holo.

_How does she taste?_

That was when Padme had turned it off the first time she’d watched it, before she commed Dorme. This time, she let it play. Half of her wanted to see what Palpatine would do. The other half…

_…Quite nice._

Well.

Padme shifted in her seat, heat slithering low in her abdomen.

She backed up the recording, and hit play.

_…Quite nice._

 

*

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin faces the consequences of his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I decided to split this one-shot into 2 parts, because of the pacing. And part 2 was almost 4000 words. So if you've already read this, there's nothing new to see here!
> 
>  **9/14/16 EDIT:** A visual aid for the sculpture/bas-relief on the walls (they're from that one scene in ROTS...you know the one): https://goo.gl/images/ejiId8
> 
> My headcanon is that Palpatine totally has more like them in his apartment. And that there's a lot of red.

Padme leaned back into soft red leather and took a sip of blossom wine, taking a moment to collect herself. 

She was seated on a sinfully comfortable love seat by the panoramic window in Palpatine’s suite in 500 Republica, soaking in the glow of nighttime on Coruscant. The Chancellor had arranged a small get-together to welcome Anakin home, and Padme, Obi-Wan, and a handful of others had been invited up for dinner and drinks. The party was winding down – they’d all moved from the dining room into the warmly lit common area, talking quietly amongst themselves, and most were edging gracefully towards the coat closet, thanking their host profusely.

Meanwhile, Palpatine’s stock of Naboo wine was dwindling. Padme wondered if he was going to have any at all by the time Anakin left, which he clearly had no intention of doing anytime soon. His cloak was firmly sequestered in the closet, and he had draped himself over one of the crimson leather couches arranged around the low black table near the window, all but putting his feet up on said table. 

Padme smiled coldly. She wasn’t leaving, either. 

Padme had yet to confront her husband about what she had seen. There was, of course, the possibility that the recording was merely a sick joke. But the fact that it had been sent to _her,_ of all people, and not the _Galactic Enquirer_ or some equally sordid gossip mag, suggested otherwise. It meant that the sender knew that Padme would have an interest in the contents, and that worried her. What if her marriage had been discovered? Or, rather, did her opponents in the Senate, knowing of her friendship with the Chancellor, wish to rattle her? _Do they think…_ Padme bit her lip.

It might not be about _Anakin_ at all…

She took a long sip of her wine and sighed. Her husband couldn’t avoid her forever. She’d try to usher him back to her apartment, and ask some pointed questions. And since he was in such an…agreeable mood, he might give her actual answers. 

_Or sober up enough to --_ Padme winced. _Focus._

It wasn’t easy, with him seated across from her, gulping wine that probably cost more than his monthly allowance from the Jedi Temple, his eyes drinking in everyone and everything. Especially her. Even now, when she was so _angry,_ Anakin’s gaze raked trails of fire across her skin. The light sheen of wine on his lips reminded her forcefully of the last time she'd seen him, when he’d climbed out from under her desk – mouth and chin dripping with her arousal, lips swollen and red…

“Senator Amidala, I don’t believe that we’ve had a chance to speak this evening.” 

Padme’s smile was genuine as she shifted over to make room for the Chancellor. It wasn’t difficult – the love seat was large enough to hold two average-sized humanoids, and easily accommodated Palpatine’s lean form as he slid in next to her, carefully avoiding the delicate drape of her shimmersilk dress. She arranged her face into friendly interest, just as she let herself sink deeper into the cushions, and tilted her head back to take a long sip of wine. Her skin pricked as she felt his eyes on her, flicking from the low neckline of her gown to the long, pale column of her throat. She swallowed deliberately, sighing quietly with pleasure. 

“It is quite all right, your Excellency,” she said, when she looked up again. “It’s been a lovely evening. There’s not a lot of room for fun in our lives these days…And I know that Anakin greatly appreciated the chance to catch up with everyone here.” Padme's eyes flicked to her husband, whose attempt at pretending not to listen was failing spectacularly. “The Jedi are working him into the ground, even when he’s on leave. I’ve maybe seen him…Oh…Twice since he arrived on Coruscant…” 

_He’s had a bit more wine than I thought,_ Padme mused, watching Anakin carefully as he continued to display a keen interest in the smooth, twisting forms of the marble sculptures that lined the walls. She smiled internally, noting the dark red flush spreading across Anakin’s face, and the way that he was gripping his wine glass. 

“I’m glad,” said Palpatine. “However…” He looked down slightly, shaking his head. “I feel as though we haven’t spoken in quite some time. Meetings and the Senate floor don’t count,” he chuckled as she opened her mouth to interject. “And I _do_ owe you an apology for that.” 

“Of course, your Excellency,” she said. She caught his eye. “I have…missed our talks.” 

Palpatine’s eyes sharpened as she shifted into Nabooian. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Please, call me Palpatine,” he said, in the same language. He mirrored her posture, and reclined sleek and languid against the expensive leather, wine glass balanced artfully in his long fingers. Padme barely concealed her shiver.

 

*

 

Anakin’s face burned as Padme relaxed against the cushions, laughing as the Chancellor said something in Nabooian. The words rumbled low in his chest, resonating with Padme’s quick, higher-pitched response, the strange harmony sending a bolt of heat straight to Anakin’s groin. 

_They look good together,_ he thought, his lips parting as he took in the scene. 

It was better than his dream. Padme was dressed somewhat more simply than he was used to. She’d eschewed her ornate Senate robes for a delicate shimmersilk dress, cut close to her body, showing off her slim curves to perfection. The deep red was a perfect match for her creamy skin, and the artful twist of hair pinned back from her neck. It reminded him of the black gown she’d worn -- _for his benefit, he was sure_ \-- on that hot night in her lake country retreat, when he’d first confessed his love. 

Anakin’s jaw clenched. She’d denied him, then. 

_She came around,_ he thought determinedly. _She was always meant to be mine._

The Chancellor was another story. Palpatine had also dispensed with his usual heavy garments. It was odd to see him without the robes of state -- _because that’s exactly what they are,_ Anakin thought. _No matter what anyone says, the trappings of nobility, of power --_ and while he was still covered from neck to ankle in a finely-tooled black robe, the overall impression was much…sharper than normal, more tailored, like a rough sculpture pared down to its essentials. 

He looked _unwrapped._

Anakin couldn’t take it. He refilled his glass and retreated to the marble bas-relief, focusing on the finely carved whorls in the smooth stone.

 _Beautiful,_ he thought, attempting to drag his mind to the craftsmanship, the effort it had taken to hew stone into such soft shapes. He gulped his wine and took a step back, to get the whole picture. 

_Bad idea._

Perhaps it was the wine, or his imagination twisting up with his libido, but the sculpture seemed to _writhe_ in front of him, the lovely flow of stone becoming a smooth tangle of hands and mouths, taut, clenching flesh, the shine of sweat on impossible curves. 

A low chuckle welled up behind him. 

Anakin shuddered. He swallowed down the wine and turned to face the couch.

 

*

 

Padme giggled – actually _giggled_ \-- as Palpatine described an encounter with the Galactic City police department. 

“I was out of uniform, so to speak,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “My security detail knew exactly where I was –“

“I’m not sure I believe _that,”_ said Padme, shifting closer. Her wine glass sat half-full and forgotten on the low table. Padme knew her limits (especially when it came to blossom wine), and felt pleasantly warm and loose-limbed – what Anakin would call ‘a little buzzed.’ And in a much better mood than she had been at the start of the evening. Palpatine chuckled.

“I admit to nothing,” he said archly, setting his own glass down. “At any rate, it seems that I was flying a few kilometers per hour over the legal limit, for that part of the city.” Padme smirked.

“A few?” 

“Complete accident, I assure you,” he said. “Though I admit that I have a slight – Anakin?” Palpatine turned away from her, frowning. Her husband stood next to the couch, an empty glass in his hand, watching them intently. “Are you –“

“I’m fine, sir,” he said, rounding the sofa, and taking a seat in front of them. “Just enjoying the view.”

Padme grit her teeth, her head clearing rapidly.

“The city is lovely this time of night, yes,” she said coolly, shooting him a warning look. Anakin grinned slowly, and nodded. 

“Not _exactly_ what I meant, but I concede the point." They locked eyes. "Don’t stop on my account.” His voice dipped lower, a dark undercurrent that Padme had never heard before. And Force help her she felt it all the way down to her bones. She jumped at Palpatine’s sharp intake of breath, and risked a quick glance. 

_Oh Goddess…_ His lean body was tense as a bowstring, his mouth a thin line, anger tinged with surprise written all over his face, plain as day. Something else, too… Padme glared at Anakin and risked a closer look at Palpatine. 

_There it is._ A light blush tinged his cheeks, and his eyes were dilated, the color almost obscured by black, blown-out, pupils. The lights had dimmed at some point in the evening -- besides the display lights on the marble sculptures, the roaring fire to the right of the couch was the only notable illumination. She leaned closer, their shoulders brushing. His eyes flickered gold, a trick of the firelight playing across his face. Or possibly her imagination, and the sweet warmth of blossom wine. 

Either way, it stole her breath. 

Palpatine turned to face her, startled, his hand flying unconsciously to her thigh. 

“It was her,” Anakin whispered, his voice rough. Palpatine made a noise low in his throat. 

_“I know,”_ he hissed, so quietly in Nubian, for her ears alone. Padme sucked in a breath, her heart pounding, his light touch burning through the thin silk. She tore her gaze away and looked towards Anakin. 

A quiet cry escaped her lips. Anakin sat rigidly on the couch, his eyes fixed on the hand on her thigh. He was a mass of tension, his fists clenched at his sides, thighs fixed together, trying to shield the growing bulge between his legs. Palpatine’s hand tightened involuntarily, and then began to drift away. Immediately Padme clapped her hand over his and _squeezed._

“Anakin,” she purred. “Is there something that you’d like to tell me?” 

 

*

 

Anakin’s mouth went dry as Padme seized the Chancellor’s hand, her delicate fingers twining with his, moving in slow circles over her silk-covered thigh.

“Well, Anakin?” Palpatine said. “The lady is curious.”

He leaned into her, fingers catching on the delicate material. Her hand fell away as he traced his way up her side, and clutched at his arm, gasping when he paused and ran his knuckles along her form, just a hair shy of the side of her breast. 

Anakin groaned, pressing his thighs tight together in an attempt to relieve the pressure. The burn rose when Padme drew a slender leg up onto the couch so that she was practically in Palpatine’s lap, their faces a breath apart. 

“I kissed him,” Anakin mumbled, the words choking him. Shame burned through his blood, even as the memory of that hot mouth and wiry body filled his thoughts. “Right after I…Left you.” His eyes stung, red and watery with humiliation. 

“I see,” said Padme. She snaked an arm around Palpatine’s shoulders, and whispered in his ear. 

 

*

 

“Did you taste me?” 

Nabooian was so sweet on the tongue. 

Palpatine dug his fingers into her waist, a low growl rumbling in his chest. She hissed and shifted against him, the sound reverberating in her breast, triggering a wet throb inside of her. She traced her lips along his jawline, pausing at the edge of his mouth, and shifted further into his lap, swallowing as she felt him harden underneath her.

“I’ll take that as a yes…”

“Please…”

They both jumped at Anakin’s low plea. 

“Please what?” Padme snapped, digging her nails into Palpatine’s shoulder as anger rose hot inside of her, feeding her arousal. 

Anakin rose from the couch and stumbled towards them, falling to his knees at the Supreme Chancellor’s feet. 

“Please touch her.” 

 

*

 

Palpatine stared at him for a long moment. A sob built up in Anakin’s chest as he called on the Force and burned the remaining alcohol out of his system, his mind whirling with jagged _certainty._

Terror sliced through him as they exchanged whispers. He flinched at every little brush of skin.

If he was wrong, he’d lose them both forever.

Finally, Padme spoke.

“Not here.”

 

*

 

The master bedroom was much further inside the suite, behind three sets of locked doors, all reinforced with blaster-proof durasteel. Palpatine didn’t waste any time, sweeping Padme’s legs out from under her and tossing her onto the thick black comforter. He held up a hand when Anakin moved to follow. 

“Boots. Off.”

“The rest, too,” said Padme helpfully, kicking off her own shoes and leaning against the headboard. She tugged one of the pins out of her hair, letting it fall in soft waves around her bare shoulders. “He’s taking a bit long, don’t you think?” she said in Nabooian, as Anakin pulled roughly at the ties on his tunic, cursing inventively.

“Quite,” Palpatine said, curling his fingers in her dress, and pulled her flush against him, hissing as she ground a thigh between his legs. Padme took the opening, and pulled him down into a kiss, her hands slipping up his surprisingly firm chest to the ornate clasp on his collar. 

The rustle of her husband wrestling with his clothes stilled, replaced with a rough groan. 

 

*

 

Anakin’s hands froze on the final ties of his leggings, the rest lying in a heap by the door. He stood, rooted to the ground as Padme pushed the sleek black garment off of Palpatine’s shoulders. Never breaking the kiss, she reached around his waist and pulled his under-layer over his head in one smooth motion, revealing an expanse of pale skin, flawless save for a few oddly-shaped scars, and a lean torso made up of compact, wiry muscle. It took all of his control to not spring forward, clothing be damned, and sink his teeth into that pale shoulder.

He got back into gear as Palpatine broke the kiss, spun Padme around, and sat back against the headboard, arranging her in his lap. One hand swept purposefully up and down her side, while the other caressed her left breast, long fingers seeking out the sensitive nub through the thin cloth of her dress. Padme moaned, her head lolling against his shoulder, little gasps falling from her lips with every rough pull, hissing filthy words into his ear. Palpatine caught Anakin’s eye as he found the side clasp.

“Pay attention, now,” he said, his eyes dark. 

He peeled the dress away from Padme’s skin with a low hiss, baring his teeth. She whimpered as he slid the silk off of her breasts. Anakin’s blood roared in his ears. 

_Too much._

He was so hard, he felt he might _split._

Anakin made it to the bed just as Padme’s dress pooled around her waist, and the Chancellor’s fingers dipped between her legs. She cried out, her eyes flying open, and ground against him, her hands twisting in the sheets.

Palpatine grasped her around the waist and pulled her close, murmuring into her ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses the pale column of her throat. Anakin slid closer and knelt by her thighs, groaning as he watched Palpatine’s fingers moving back and forth under the red silk. 

It wouldn’t be long now. Padme’s color was high, and sweat was beading between her small, round, breasts, and along her hairline. She could go for hours, Anakin knew, once she got started, but for that first peak, she usually needed…

He leaned in and kissed her. 

Padme cried out, her hand flying up to grasp a handful of Anakin’s hair and yanked it, hard. He pressed closer, groaning with pleasure at the pain, and thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, bracing himself on Palpatine’s shoulder. Her back bowed, and she shuddered, her mouth dropping open as he swallowed her moan, her hips jerking between them. 

Palpatine tucked her against his shoulder, stroking her hair as she came down. He removed his fingers gently, a rather smug smile on his face.

“Anakin,” he murmured. “Open up.” Anakin shuddered, and sucked in Palpatine’s fingers as deep as they would go, his tongue laving every bit of skin he could reach, cleaning them of his wife’s arousal. 

“She’ll need a few minutes,” he gasped, as soon as he was finished. Palpatine nodded. His eyes flicked to Anakin’s erection, now straining against his stomach, flushed and dripping. He pulled the dress the rest of the way off Padme, and lowered his hand to her cunt. She hummed with approval, letting her legs fall open as he stroked her flushed, glistening, folds, slicking his fingers and palm thoroughly. Then he beckoned to Anakin.

Padme rolled off of him, grinning wickedly, and tugged Anakin down, pinning him between her and Palpatine. 

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, cradling his head in her lap, sliding her hands down his muscular chest, tugging teasingly at his nipples, to the dark blonde hair curling at the base of his cock. “My Ani…” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning as her small, hot hand closed around the head, and gave it a soft tug. They flew open again when a slick finger, too large to be Padme’s, stroked him from root to head.

“Right there,” Padme breathed. “He likes it a little slow, until…Yes, there...” She swore, words that Anakin had no idea that she could even _pronounce_ falling from her lips as Palpatine wrapped his hand around Anakin, and gave an experimental pull. 

Soon he was thrusting up into that hand, Padme rubbing his chest and back soothingly as Palpatine worked him into a frenzy, the burning slide somehow hitting his most sensitive spots every single time. He was right on the edge, face tensed, straining for it desperately, when Padme pushed him off her lap, crouched between his legs, and sucked the tip into her mouth.

He was too large for her to take it all, but the combination of hot, wet suction at the head, and that slick hand working his shaft undid him completely. He pulled Padme off of him just in time, groaning, his brain whiting out as he came across her chest. 

 

*

 

Padme lay back against Palpatine’s chest and rubbed at the come dripping down her breasts. Her core throbbed as she took in the sight of her husband collapsed beside her, the hard lines of his body gleaming with sweat, limbs loose and comfortable, cradled in soft sheets. And behind her…She shivered, arching her back as Palpatine draped an arm across her waist, and began tracing slow circles along her hip. 

“Padme…” 

“We’re not done here, you know,” she murmured, and rolled her hips, reaching over to lift one of his hands to her breast, squeezing gently. “And…There…” He groaned, his fingers digging into her hip as her other hand closed around his cock. “Found you.” 

She got to her knees and straddled him, sitting back on her heels, balancing herself with a hand on his waist. He watched her closely, hands gripping her hips firmly, but made no move to pull her forward, despite the flush blossoming across his skin. She looked down, wincing as his cock strained against his stomach, the thick tip swollen and dripping precome. Slowly, she reached out and drew her knuckles across his flank, holding her breath, waiting for his reaction. A smile broke through when she saw his shiver, and his fingers dug into her hips. She rocked forward, grinding her clit against the base of his cock, biting her lip at the firm heat. They locked eyes. Slowly, she worked herself over him, rubbing her folds along his length until he was slick from root to tip, his grip on her hips bruising, delicious. 

Finally, she tapped his hand, getting him to loosen his grip, and she lined him up at her entrance. He clenched his jaw hard as she pressed the tip inside, gasping, her core throbbing as she steadied herself.

Then a pair of large, hot hands gripped her ass, twined in with Palpatine’s, and urged her forward. 

Padme took him carefully, working her way down as slowly as she could manage, despite her instincts screaming to be filled hard and fast. Anakin watched intently, his breath rough, growing hard against her back as he watched Palpatine’s cock slip inside her, inch by inch. She dragged Palpatine up when she bottomed out, kissing him roughly, gripping his shoulders for leverage as she adjusted to his length. Not to be outdone, Anakin reached around to cup a breast, and press her close to his broad, smooth chest, whispering just how _good_ she was doing, and how he knew that she could take it, kissing his way along her neck and shoulders. Soon he was face to face with Palpatine. Padme caught her breath as the two men froze. 

Palpatine closed the distance, reaching out to grasp Anakin by the hair, and bite down on his bottom lip. Anakin moaned.

 _“Harder,”_ he hissed, pulling against the hand in his hair. Palpatine was more than happy to oblige. He timed the next bite with a hard thrust that had Padme raking her nails down his back, and left Anakin gasping. 

“Don’t stop,” she moaned into his shoulder, slipping into Nabooian yet again.

“As my lady commands…”

Some time later, as they lay curled around each other, too tired to move, it occurred to Padme that she really ought to at least _try_ to teach Anakin to speak her first language. 

 

*

 

Anakin woke up first. He stumbled naked to the ‘fresher, wincing as the harsh overhead lights chased away the last of his fatigue. After relieving himself, he took a moment to gather his courage, and then padded back to the master bedroom.

They lay there, tangled up in silk, elegant and precious as ever, even sticky with sweat and sex. 

He jumped a little as Palpatine muttered something – was it his name? -- in his sleep, and one eye cracked open, sweeping the room in confusion.

 _False alarm._ The Chancellor fell back to sleep almost immediately, after throwing an arm lazily over Padme’s waist.

_My people._

Anakin wanted to keep them.

_I’ll find a way…_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Anakin, you and your barely-adequate impulse control…tsk tsk…You’re one of the fandom bicycles for a reason. But we love you for it.  
> 2\. If anyone can lie in Nabooian, it’s Palpatine.  
> 3\. Not sure who’s double-teaming who…This is my first threesome fic. Of course it involves the Sith. #lifegoals  
> 


End file.
